


be my once in a lifetime (you see me for who i am)

by gratefulnblissful (possibilist)



Series: moon river [3]
Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, soft yet again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/gratefulnblissful
Summary: it’s all scary sometimes, but she tickles your side for a moment before you laugh and give in. she closes her eyes for a moment and suddenly you can feel it all; the shaky future and the magic and the monotony; the endless, endless love. ‘i’d like that, chris,’ she says softly, and you’re sure she can feel it too.or: soft x3
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Series: moon river [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183226
Comments: 14
Kudos: 126





	be my once in a lifetime (you see me for who i am)

**Author's Note:**

> hope ur all doing ok, hopefully this helps
> 
> idek... cw i guess(?) -- i mention them getting vaccinated. hopefully no one has any trauma w the vaccine(s)? not graphic at all either (? lol) - i got my first dose sunday & felt hopeful, so that's the vibe. but u can skip that section if u rly don't wanna think that much abt covid, everything else is ~smooth brain~

_would like to think that you would stick around_  
_you know that i’d just die to make you proud_  
_the taste the touch the way we love_

—lana del rey, ‘love song’

//

‘are you _sure_?’

tobin laughs, carefree and beaming, and squeezes your hand. ‘yeah, chris, you’ll be fine.’

you sigh, wrap the old towel a little tighter around her shoulders. she’s sitting on a stool from your kitchen island that you’d moved into your bathroom, and you have a pair of hairdressing scissors in your hand; it’s been over a year since she’s gotten a haircut and you can agree with her that her split ends are definitely a little bit out of control. _still_ , you have no idea what you’re doing and no notable experience, and tobin’s hair, even though she won’t admit it — or admit she’s vain in general, but she definitely is — is kind of her _thing_.

‘well,’ you say, ‘it can’t be as bad as your 2019 world cup haircut.’

she gasps, turns to look at you. ‘you said it looked nice!’

‘we were heading into a world cup; i wanted you to feel totally confident in yourself and your decision making.’

she pouts and you let her for a moment because it’s cute, honestly, but you kiss her forehead. ‘you were still so hot, it’s okay.’

‘whatever,’ she says, crosses her arms under the towel. she tries to stay serious but eventually she laughs once. ‘it was terrible.’

you laugh too, squeeze her shoulder.

she shrugs. ‘see, so whatever happens you’re right, it won’t be that bad. just, like, cut an inch, okay?’

you steel yourself and try to will your hands to be steady. once you get started it’s not that hard: tobin’s hair is soft and straight, easier to make relatively even than you had feared. you work quietly; she whistles a little but mostly it’s peaceful, the rain pattering away outside.

you remember, fondly and also a little embarrassingly, when you first met her, how she used hotel shampoo and conditioner or some horrible two in one combo; when you told her that the shampoo and conditioner you used for your curls would probably make her hair oily, she had genuinely been surprised because she thought most hair care was all the same. how, as the years went on, she always remembered to pack your silk pillowcase if you forgot, and listened to you patiently as you told her the whole process of how you wash your hair every week.

she’s done that for you, not often but when you needed her to — respect and reverence; when your brain hurt too much for you to shower; after your mom died; when you got sick. you comb through her hair now and make sure you got her split ends and even things out as much as possible; it’s tender and intimate and when you declare her finished she runs a hand through her hair and checks in the mirror.

she smiles at you and very genuinely says an enthused, ‘it looks great, chris! thank you,’ with a kiss to your cheek. ‘i’ll clean it up.’

you watch her pad out of the bathroom to get a broom in just an old, worn pair of sweatpants slung low on her thin hips, the towel around her shoulders set carefully on the stool. she comes back in with a determined little look to her face and starts sweeping. your heart swells a little, at how much you love her, how your hands still shake sometimes but you steady them and do your best anyway.

/

you’re catching up on some news on your ipad, settled into the corner of the couch, when you hear tobin curse under her breath and then turn to you with a pitiful little frown, holding up yet another dead houseplant.

‘why does this keep happening to them?’ she asks, woeful. you don’t want to laugh because she really has tried to keep them alive, reading message boards and even facetiming with your sister to show her each plant. she’s repotted a few, tried different watering schedules, bought a mister online, and tried to move them around so they’ll get more sun. it’s, like, the least sunny place, though, and so even the lowlight plants seem to struggle.

‘i’m not sure, baby,’ you say, because you really aren’t. she’s so cute, in her hoodie and her beanie and her shorts, slightly askew, with one sock slipped down lower than the other, looking at her dead plant. she sighs and puts it back on its place on your bookcase and when you hold your arm out she sulks to you, lies down on the couch and puts her head into your lap with a huff.

‘i try so hard,’ she says, muffled, into the material of the blanket covering your legs. you run your free hand through her hair and, when you read some shitty news, her even breath and warm body makes you feel just a little bit better.

in the spring, when the sun finally comes out, so many of her plants perk back up, reaching steadily toward the light.

/

you bundle up as best you can, even though you’re still terrible at the cold, even after all these years; too thin, too anxious, you think sometimes, to stay warm all on your own.

but tobin smiles over at you, as big as ever, from the park bench you’d found a little bit off the trail, her mask dangling from one ear before she takes a sip of her apple cider that you’d spiked with just a small amount of cinnamon whiskey. you don’t really drink during the season but you have a by-week and tobin is injured, so one drink on one night is okay. your fingers are freezing but you dig into the french fries between you; you want to eat them while they’re still warm.

‘i love going on dates with you,’ she says, ‘even during this time.’

‘not tired of me yet?’

you’re smiling, leaning into her side, so obviously you don’t mean it — you would never mean it — but she backs up a little to look at you seriously.

‘dude, when you were away, those were, like, the worst weeks of the past year for me. not that i wasn’t happy for you, because you’re fucking awesome, but i missed you.’

‘i missed you too.’

‘i’ll never be tired of you, chris. you know that.’

‘yeah,’ you say, bring her hand up and kiss her wedding band. ‘mrs. press-heath.’

you swear to god she almost swoons, which would be embarrassing usually, but you’re in love with her and it’s not raining or snowing and she’d read yelp reviews for hours to get you semi-decent french fries in manchester so, really, you feel exactly the same.

‘my wife,’ she says, almost to herself, then grabs and fry and holds it up to your mouth for you to eat. you bite it, laughing, and then two older men with a beautiful setter round the corner of the trail. you’re still chewing and it’s kind of gross but you put your mask on quickly, wave hello to them. they call to the dog but it tugs on its leash in an effort to say hi to you — or eat your fries, you’re pretty sure. they apologize but you and tobin both assure them that it’s just fine; you get to pet the dog and when tobin asks they assure you it’s fine if you feed him a few fries.

you get down on one knee even though the ground is cold so that you can pet the dog as enthusiastically as possible, and it makes you desperately miss your family and your dogs but it’s okay. tobin has her hand casually on her back and she makes easy conversation; when they figure out who you are, they get excited and so tobin gets to have a very technical conversation about football, which always delights her.

they give you a few nature trail recommendations, and tobin somehow charms her way into exchanging phone numbers and letting them let her walk the dog “if you ever need help.” she’s, just, _warm_ , you think, and everyone can tell. everyone can feel it.

they eventually take their leave and your fries have grown cold but you don’t mind.

‘you think we’ll be on a nature walk with a dog in forty years?’

tobin takes her mask off one ear so you can see the force of her smile. ‘yeah, you still won’t be able to keep up with me.’

you _laugh_. ‘you better pray that you have successful knee replacements or something.’

‘hey,’ she says, raises her right foot in its boot. ’just because you’re jealous i’m so fast and so fashionable.’

you take her hand, don’t ignore the telltale furrow of her brow that shows you she’s a little scared, a little hurt, even though she wants to hide it. ‘i love you,’ you say. ‘in forty years we’ll definitely be on a nature walk with a beautiful dog, okay? just, somewhere warmer, please.’

she grins. ‘well, with climate change —‘

‘—tobin,’ you groan, and it’s true, she’s right and it’s all scary sometimes, but she tickles your side for a moment before you laugh and give in. ‘maybe a little town, by the ocean.’

‘yeah,’ she says, closing her eyes for a moment and suddenly you can feel it all; the shaky future and the magic and the monotony; the endless, endless love. ‘i’d like that, chris,’ she says softly, and you’re sure she can feel it too.

/

you’re cleaning the counter after dinner when she comes up behind you, sleepy from a full day of rehab and tactical sessions and then being in charge of making the food.

she mumbles into your shoulder and you lean back into her, an easy intimacy, a comfort.

‘i’m good,’ you say. ‘how are you doing?’

she laughs fully, straightens. ‘i said i love you.’

‘oh,’ you say, laughing too. ‘i love you back.’

she hugs you to her again, happy and clearly amused. ‘awesome.’

/

you’ve been lying on the couch all day; you knew, essentially, what to expect from all of your friends and family and the general reports, and also from the slight fever and aches you had after your first shot, but you feel _terrible_. your arm hurts and you’ve had a fever for hours; tobin has had a headache all day, sleeping off and on.

she wakes up slowly, then, and you don’t bother to pretend you weren’t just watching her. there’s a documentary playing softly in the background — netflix had autoplayed something new after you’d fallen asleep during the first documentary you’d put on, so you honestly don’t even know what this is about — and she smiles softly at you.

‘how you feeling?’

‘gross,’ she says with a little frown. ‘you?’

‘yeah, me too.’

she sighs, stretches out and then rubs her temples before turning back to you. ‘i can meet my baby nephew soon, huh?’

there’s a little wonder in her eyes, relief that you’d tried not to wish for, for so long. ‘we can see my dad.’

she nods, scoots closer so she can kiss you softly. ‘i feel hopeful.’

you snuggle into her chest; she burrows a hand into your curls to scratch your scalp. ‘me too.’

‘i also feel nauseous and hungry at the same time,’ she says, and you laugh once. ‘wanna order something? we should eat.’

‘yeah,’ you say. ‘i’ll get my phone.’

/

it takes some serious sex bargaining but you get her to come to yoga class with you, _finally_ , after things settle down after your move to los angeles. your studio is right on the beach, with worn floorboards and sun streaming in the windows, bolsters that always smell like lavender. it’s one of your favorite places in the world, you think, has been for years since you did a trial vinyasa flow with your mom that had kicked your ass and she’d breezed through it without a problem. it makes you laugh, still, to remember fumbling trying to look up in triangle pose and almost toppling over right into her.

tobin is, unsurprisingly, terrible at any poses that are mostly about flexibility, but she can do _insane_ arm balances and inversions immediately after any teacher demonstrates. the first time you’re in a handstand practice and you’re getting situated in dolphin pose by the wall and she pops straight up in the middle of the room on her mat without even having to take a settling breath, no problem, you have to roll your eyes.

she doesn’t really like it, but she goes with you sometimes when you promise brunch afterward, or when she’s especially bored or restless or feeling a creative block. at first you’d taken her along to classes and texted the teacher beforehand that she might need modifications for her low back or her ankle — because tobin doesn’t even really know but also would never ask — but, after a few months, with new teachers, she figures it out all on her own: she introduces herself before class with a smile and explains her injuries and limitations. sometimes, you’re so impressed and inspired by how much she’s grown as a person since you’d met her — but you’re also not surprised, even when she amazes you. tobin is kind of an idiot sometimes but she wants, more than anyone you know, to be kind, and patient, and good.

so she goes to yoga sometimes, gets reluctantly better at pigeon and looks at you with awe when you easily shift from a full bind in extended side angle to bird of paradise. ‘how the _fuck_ ,’ she whispers to herself and you have to focus so hard not to fall over from laughing.

she falls asleep during shavasana more often than not and you have to wake her gently. she smiles and stretches and complains about it all the way home, promises to go with you to her favorite flow class again next week.

/

you’re looking through tobin’s underwear drawer for a pair of boxers to wear to sleep — they’re comfortable but tobin also is predictable in always wanting to go down on you the second she sees you in them, a little snug on your hips — when you come across a pair that’s fraying around the band at the top. tobin is pretty good about going through her clothes annually; you both started a few years ago so that you would have space in the limited closets in her portland apartment, but also because you donate seasonally to the LGBTQ youth center and try to recycle the rest.

but still — tobin is her own person, and you definitely don’t keep track of what boxers she has or hasn’t kept; she does the laundry anyway so you wouldn’t really have any way to know. you lift them out of the drawer to see which they are, and to make a mental note to mention to her that maybe you should do your spring sorting soon, even though seasons in los angeles sort of lose all meaning. it takes you a second but then your heart swoops, just a little, when you realize they were the first pair of boxers you’d ever bought her. you’d seen her looking at them in the men’s section for a long time one day years and years ago, when things had been so new and so exciting and so tenuous, in some ways — you were still scared to show the confusing parts of yourselves to each other sometimes. you’d asked her, then, casually, if she wanted to get them; you’d noticed little things, like how she would tug at shirts that fit too tight and breathe a little sigh of relief whenever she got to change out of a dress and into basketball shorts and a hoodie, but tobin is _tobin_ : an athlete and also someone who likes to be comfortable, someone who likes to couch surf and fall asleep on the beach.

but she also cares what she looks like, you’d come to realize after you’d watched her scroll through men’s streetwear releases so happily on her phone and then agonize over what pair of short shorts to wear out to a bar with the team. she’d told you about growing up, and the expectations, and her sisters’ well-meaning comments; you’d massaged her shoulders after she’d taken off a real bra when you’d gotten back to your apartment after dinner. it had started to click into place in the middle of nordstrom’s then, as you watched her long for something and when you’d asked if she wanted to get a pair she’d looked at you in panic for a moment before mumbling some excuse about shopping for her brother for christmas, even though it was may. your heart had ached for her; you’d held her hand extra tight that day and had started trying to mention all the types of non-femme people you thought were hot, listening extra close when she’d talk to you excitedly about sneakers she wanted, even though you thought it was boring.

it had been hard; things like that are never easy. you’d gotten her the boxers for her birthday, nervous about it but determined to show her all the space she could have if she wanted, no matter what it would mean. you’d given them to her privately the morning after a party with friends where she’d worn black jeans and a t-shirt and brand new jordans after she’d looked so miserable in a dress you’d convinced her to change, and then you’d changed into jeans too; her shoulders had relaxed and she’d squeezed your hand in thanks before tracing the sliver of skin along your spine left exposed by your crop top with a smirk.

she’d looked at you quietly when she’d opened the package, and you’d nodded, trying to reassure her of _whatever_ it was that she needed to know — sometimes you’re still not quite sure. she’d worn the boxers to sleep that night, a little smile on her face, and a few weeks later had put them on before hopping into a pair of jeans. you’d been doing your hair in the bathroom mirror but you’d watched her with a little smile when she checked out her butt and then nodded a solemn approval, tried not to laugh.

sometimes you’re still not sure how she’s feeling, because you don’t even think tobin is quite sure. you’d gotten her to go to therapy, for all kinds of things that she needed to have someone to talk to about, but she’s haltingly tried to explain how she feels about gender to you a few times. you’ve watched her come into her own in her very tobin way: quietly and with a lot of creativity. she’s beautiful and hot and handsome and sexy and overwhelmingly kind so of course you love her; you always have, even in ripped basketball shorts and a flip flop that she’d duct taped together and then horrendously worn out for days.

you hear her come in from taking ronny on his nightly walk and smile. she’s in some travis scott shorts situation and a new re- hoodie design, a pair of slides that cost way more money than they should but that she thought were cool so you got them for her anyway. her hair is long and messy from the salt air; she smiles when she sees you.

‘hey,’ she says, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind, kissing your neck. ‘you wearing boxers to bed? you know i love when you do that.’

_predictable_ , you think. you pat her arm, turn around to kiss her once gently. you hold the old pair of boxers up with a soft smile. she looks momentarily embarrassed but you squeeze her hand and she steadies herself.

‘how are you feeling, lately?’ before she can get anxious, you swipe your thumb along the back of her hand once in easy reassurance. ‘you seem good, we just haven’t checked in about this in a while.’

in the past she might’ve tried to deflect, or roll her eyes, or make a joke; now, she sits down on the edge of the bed and pats next to her so you sit too. she crosses her arms over her chest but she makes sure to make calm, clear eye contact with you, relaxes her shoulder blades down her back like you practice in yoga.

‘weird,’ she says, ‘but not, like, in a bad way? just kind of like apathetic. i’m your wife, i’m ronny’s mom, and i like that. but, also, i’m just me, and energy and vibes, so, you know, it’s cool.’

she meanders through it and you have no real idea what most of that meant but she seems incredibly sincere in it all. ‘yeah?’

she situates herself a little more comfortably on the bed, plays with the fraying band of the boxers. ‘when you first got these for me i was really scared because i didn’t want to think about making things harder for myself. but it really hurt, to not be who i wanted to be.’ she smiles up at you. ‘who i was, who i am. but you got them and you said i was hot and, i don’t know, chris, you just —‘ she shrugs, like it was nothing — ‘you _saw_ me. even when i didn’t want you to, at first. you did. and you loved me.’

it’s the most tobin has ever, _ever_ said about any of this, and you want to cry but it isn’t about you.

‘so yeah, the world is weird. i’m just me and i’m not things i’m supposed to be within society or whatever, and like sometimes i’m confused still, but, with you and our friends and even my family, mostly now, i guess i don’t really think about it. not in an ashamed way. i feel okay. sometimes i feel happy.’ she smiles a little. ‘i feel seen.’ she squeezes your hand. ‘you make me feel seen.’

‘tobin,’ you say, at a loss. ‘i love you,’ you settle on, because it’s the best you have.

she grins. ‘i love you too.’

she kisses you full on the mouth, happy and light. ‘so, back to why you were looking in the drawer though —‘

she raises her brows hopefully and you roll your eyes. ‘what if i told you i just wanted to sleep?’

she runs her hand up your thigh and tangles the other to tug on your curls as she kisses your neck. ‘do you?’

‘no,’ you relent, pull her closer to you, ‘i want you.’

she sits back, just for a moment, takes you in fully, eyes dark and sincere. ‘i want you too, chris.’

when she looks up at you from between your legs, both of you naked and sweaty and perfect, just like that, just as you are — you feel seen too.

/

‘christen,’ she says, a little admonishing, when she pokes her head in the door of your bedroom. you frown, keep petting ronny’s soft ears.

‘tobin.’ you match her tone.

she frowns. ‘you know the trainer said we shouldn’t let him sleep in our bed because he keeps waking me up in the middle of the night.’

you pout, and ronny pouts like he knows exactly what’s going on, and tobin sighs.

‘he’s just so cute though,’ you say, scratch his stomach when he rolls over and leans against your leg. one of his ears has popped up by now but the other flops down still; he smiles whenever you go to the pet store near your house; he cries when he gets in the car to go to malibu, where he’s allowed to swim and run around on the beach.

‘babe,’ she says, ‘he wakes me up, like, three or four times a night to play or sleep on the bed.’

you and ronny — you _swear_ he knows — team up and keep pouting.

tobin frowns. ‘are you okay? why are you even still in bed? is it a bad day or —‘

you shrug. honestly it kind of is; you’d been so happy to retire, mostly, but your hormones are all over the place and you feel restless sometimes — which makes you anxious but also just achingly depressed some days. tobin knows the days well, when you can barely get out of bed. she’s helped you through them for a decade now, makes you your favorite thick sourdough toast and run you baths with your favorite salts; she never tries to make how you’re feeling go away, or even to make it better, she just loves you through it. you feel tears prick at your eyes thinking about it all: your beautiful wife and your sweet puppy and this gorgeous house she built you right on the water; your family and your company and everything brimming with purpose.

tobin crawls up to lie down next to you, scratching ronny’s stomach and pillowing her head in the crook of her arm so she can look at you. ‘it’s okay,’ she says. ‘it’ll be okay. the doctor said your meds might need adjusting with the hormones, right? so, you know, we can do that if we need to, i’ll —‘

‘baby,’ you say, take a deep breath and squeeze her hand. ‘thank you.’

she crinkles her brows but nods. ‘well, yeah? it’s what i’m here for.’

‘you’re the best.’

‘i guess he can sleep in the bed, like, a little while longer. but i _swear_ , chris, he’s making me so tired.’

you laugh, even though you don’t fully feel it — you love her.

she lets you go back to a shallow sleep, brings you a bagel and coffee before she takes ronny to the park. you get the energy to shower and move out to the couch and when they come back she looks delighted to see you up. she sits down next to you and shows you videos of ronny clumsily and enthusiastically trying to catch a frisbee, and then him playing chase with another puppy.

she smells a little like sweat and grass and laundry detergent, by your side in the sun like, by now, it seems like she’s always been.

/

tobin paces around, clearly upset.

‘christen,’ she says, ‘this just — it doesn’t make sense.’

you know her well enough by now to wait calmly, sitting on your bed. your son and your daughter are fast asleep; you’d shared some good wine and her favorite chocolate on your balcony while the sun faded beyond the waves. ‘what doesn’t make sense, love?’ you ask gently. ‘do you not want another child?’

she scoffs. ‘of _course_ i want another child. i would have, like, seven kids with you if you wanted.’

‘i definitely do not want to push another five children out of my body,’ you say.

she slows down, which you knew she would eventually. she looks at you with wide eyes. ‘you want to use _my_ egg? for the baby?’

‘yes. that’s what i said.’

‘but, chris. _why_? we already have two babies from you and they’re — you’re — _god_ , so smart and so beautiful and so, just, like, perfect. they’re perfect?’

‘they’re great,’ you agree, because they are; they’re the most incredible things you’ve ever seen. ‘but so are you.’

she chews on her lip, thinking a little. ‘i’m messy and i had the _worst_ temper as a kid, and i had a really hard time learning to read and i’m still not that good at it, and —‘

‘tobin,’ you say, stand so you can hold her hands. ‘i want a kid with big brown eyes and tons of energy and the best smile in the whole goddamn world. and when they feel overwhelmed, we’ll know that they need to surf or juggle or skate. if they have the same learning disability, we’ll find people who can help us know what to do to make sure they have fun learning.’

her bottom lip starts to tremble so you know it’s working, and your heart gets a little bigger in your chest.

‘you are the kindest person i have ever met, tobin. you’re the best mom. the _best_.’

‘a little me?’

‘yeah,’ you say, wipe her tears with your thumbs, wait for her smile. ‘a little you.’

when it comes, slowly like it’s dawning on her, then full force, the sun — you kiss her.

she sighs into your mouth and kisses you back. ‘i know, like, we’ll have to do IVF or whatever, i’m sure you already researched,’ she says, reaching under your t-shirt to run her hands down her back, ‘but what do you say to getting started on baby number three tonight?’

you laugh, fully, and back up to look at her. ‘you’re ridiculous.’

‘you married me. you’re raising children with me.’

you kiss her again. ‘i did. i am. the best life.’

‘yeah,’ she says, laying you back down on your bed gently before taking her shirt off and leaning down to kiss you. ‘the best life.’

**Author's Note:**

> i'll probably write one more in this series, who knows when. if u have any prompts u want or any little scenes ur thinking of, u can send them at possiblistfanfiction on tumblr


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